


TITLE REDACTED

by ms_worplesdon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 01:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15328848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_worplesdon/pseuds/ms_worplesdon





	TITLE REDACTED

**Introduction to the 3rd North American Edition:**  
  
As we celebrate this 20th anniversary of the original publication of Alasdair Head's seminal work with a new, revised edition, it is time perhaps to reexamine Mr. Head's contributions to literature, science and pornographic representations of the characters from Harry Potter.  
  
How did this odd little man from a family in decline manage to claw his way to the very top of so many different fields? Head has submitted papers to the Royal Society on topics ranging from entomology to phlebotomy and in nearly every example managed to seamlessly weave in complex homoerotic stories set within the 'Harry Potter' universe originally created by J.K. Rowling.  
  
Is it literature or is it science? Gentlemen; the very fact that we are asking this question suggests that we are dealing with a true pioneering giant of the humanities.  
  
Mr. Head was fond of saying that a man is best judged by an examination of his enemies. Perhaps this was why he made so very many of them and at such varied levels of society. In the spirit of that sentiment, let us now examine Head's most notable adversaries.  
  
Head's long-standing quarrel with Rev. Gilbert White over the particulars of the supposed hibernation of European barn swallows is well-known. By the time of their respective deaths, no one other than themselves actually believed that swallows hibernated at all. By all appearances they ought to have been natural allies and yet on at least three occasions the two men had to be forcibly separated during melees in the street. Rev. White felt very strongly that this hibernation occurred at the bottoms of Cornish tin mines while Head followed the example of Aristotle (a great lover of the Greek ways was Mr. Head) in arguing that the swallows, in fact, dove in vast flocks to the bottoms of mill ponds for the duration of winter. It is widely known that the short, ugly scar above Mr. Head's left eye was caused by a blow from Rev. White's brass-headed cane on the occasion of Sir Henry Hallett Dale's funeral. Their subsequent expulsion from the Athaeneum Club was a direct result of their feud.  
  
His dispute with noted SoHo dandy Sebastian Horsley was somewhat one-sided. Head had an affair with Mr. Horsley that was brief but believed by many to have enormously influenced the homoerotic themes that would later appear in his literature. The fling ended badly and Head bore a grudge against Horsley for the rest of his life, going so far as to savage Horsley in the editorial pages of the Daily Mail after the latter’s dramatic crucifixion. For his part, Horsley appears utterly oblivious to Head’s ill will and struggled to even remember who Alasdair Head was during an interview in preparation for this piece.  
  
There was, of course, Head’s notorious battle with pioneering physicist John William Strutt (the 3rd Baron Rayleigh). Lord Rayleigh of course proposed the existence of the noble gas argon. Head quickly retorted, presenting a paper before a meeting of the Society in which he labeled Lord Rayleigh “a raving lunatic.” Surely no one could ever sum up Head’s criticism of argon more clearly than Head himself:  
  
_“The belief in so-called noble gases of any kind is the very worst sort of modern superstition that I have seen among Englishmen since the seance craze. What is the nature of this imaginary gas? Lord Rayleigh says that you cannot see it, you cannot smell it and it does not react with much of anything. And yet we are to believe that this invisible nothing of his is an elemental, on par with gold and iron? Gentleman, the only gas that I detect in Lord Rayleigh’s theory of ‘argon’ is very much of an odour – very much indeed!”_  
  
Following Mr. Head's untimely death of scurvy last May, a wealth of old letters was discovered among his things which documented a private quarrel between himself and the pioneering Egyptologist Sir E. A. Wallis Budge. This quarrel, unknown to the general public until recently, originally concerned early pairings that Head shipped in some of his first published HP fan fiction. In a letter to his mother regarding the disagreement, Budge wrote:  
  
_“I cannot countenance a pairing of Hermione and Harry, for it is of the worst incestuous nature. This pairing can only encourage the most immoral, un-healthy desires in the loins of the reader, not only setting him apart from G-d and his fellow man but also necessarily leading to a sort of shame that must put one in ill balance of the humours and endanger the liver.”_  
  
The disagreement between Budge and Head later expanded to the question of whether the Heiratic script descended directly from the true Heiroglyphic or merely borrowed characters. Head’s papers on early Coptic manuscripts were later discredited, but scholars still consider them worth reading for the frotting scenes.  
  
The least of Head’s enemies was indisputably the old woman affectionately known to Northampton locals as ‘50p Lil.’ A former prostitute, 50p Lil raised the ire of Alasdair Head when an unknown prankster paid her a small sum of money to defecate in his umbrella, which had been left by the door as he entered Woolworth’s on a rainy afternoon. Head was more vexed by the 50p Lil situation than he had been by quarrels with any other person. There was literally nothing he could do. Write about it? Lil was and remains illiterate. Challenge her? She’s a dried-up old woman who could not possibly fight a duel. Press legal charges? The authorities didn’t want her to be their problem any more than Head did. 50p Lil, so named for her usual price, was untouchable in her ignorance and filth and Head’s inability to obtain any sort of revenge haunted him to his last days.  
  
As the untimely death of Mr. Head fades farther into the past, it would seem that public interest in his life only increases. The bookshops have seen a parade of tell-all biographies, photographic retrospectives and anthologies of his scientific papers, HP slash fiction and personal letters. But has this flood of research gotten us any closer to understanding the man himself?  
  
Surely the recent revelations of his various trysts with the Boswell Sisters shed some light on the origins of his 'het-fic' period. It is not unreasonable to suggest that Head's pairing of Seamus simultaneously with Ginny, Luna and Hermione had some origin in that relationship with the famous trio of crooners. His depiction of a young wizard torn in three directions and unable to choose among them is of a nature so vivid and penetrating that only personal experience could have allowed it.  
  
Darker questions have also been raised by some of the recent Head scholarship. Could it really have been Alasdair Head who put Bella in the witch elm? His presence at Stourbridge at the estimated time of the killing can easily be explained by his attempts to follow up on reports of European barn swallows being seen in the act of diving to the bottom of a Stourbridge dew pond during the previous October. But other details are more sinister. The strip of taffeta found in the dead woman's mouth, believed to have been used to asphyxiate her, perfectly matches the fabric of a dress that Head was known to have worn during his liaisons with Ernest Rutherford, 1st Baron of Nelson. Head and Rutherford later fell out over the notorious argon controversy (the existence of argon being necessary to some of Rutherford's experiments demonstrating orbital theory of the atom). Was Rutherford telling the truth about Head's taffeta dress, or were these the angry accusations of an unhappy former lover?  
  
Head was democratical in his selections of both enemies and bed-mates, rare enough though it is that those can be separated into distinct groups in the case of Alasdair Head. Another generation of scholars will surely continue trying to disentangle clues as to Head’s personal psychosexual history from his papers and essays on beetles of the South Pacific islands. Meanwhile, Head’s work must speak for itself.  
  
  
**Acknowledgements:**  
_The author wishes to express his affectionate gratitude and warmest regards to a number of persons who have provided invaluable assistance in the course of producing this work._  
  
I could not have produced this, my opus, without the advice and friendship of Sir Edmund Stokes, FRS. Sir Edmund's world-famous work on gynandromorphism among new world butterflies has been (and remains) a source of great inspiration to me.  
  
The infinite patience of Miss Edith Humphries has been essential to the progress of my work these last several years as I have toiled away on the volume that you now hold. Miss Humphries is the proprietor of the 'Snodgrass Arms' pub and boarding house where I have been forced by circumstances beyond my control to take up temporary residence. One could not ask for a more understanding woman in this line. Without a word of complaint she has put up with my coming and going at all hours of the night and tapping away at the type-writer until dawn. Never more than a sideways glance and a discreet cough was directed at me on those occasions when I have brought a rum-looking rent boy up to my meagre quarters for purposes of research and evaluation.  
  
Among my many colleagues at the Royal Society I scarcely know where to begin for fear of leaving someone out. Professor L.P. Thomson stands out for having patiently explained to me the workings of the internal combustion engine, providing the true fount of automotive wisdom that the reader will note within these pages. I am in the debt of Sir Ernest Huxley for his ground-breaking anatomical drawings demonstrating the means by which the male anatomy could be made to spontaneously dis-engorge its seed _solely through stimulation by the human hand._ Lady Rayleigh has been terribly obliging in allowing me access to her late husband's research into inter-aural time delay. While the late Baron and I did have a long and public standing quarrel as to the _alleged_ existence of argon, it fills me with no end of joy to have my way with his wife now that he has departed this world.  
  
Finally, I must express my gratitude and affection to my dear Aunt Agatha who raised me from the age of 10 and to whom I owe my valuable habits of diligence and cleanliness. Each and every day, from morning inspections to bed-time enemas, Auntie taught me the importance of good character and above all else perseverance. Perseverance in the face of any and all adversity even when that means doing something again and again and again and again and again until one gets it right and isn't dirty anymore.  
  
  
  
  


**DEATH AT THE MANOR**

by Alasdair Head

  
  
  
  
  
Narcissa Malfoy considered the lilies. She detested lilies. Their obnoxious pollen, their smell, the horrible way they clogged up a garden when they finally died. She was sure that they represented death because of their awful waxy texture alone. She congratulated herself for insisting on the tiger lilies. At least they had some color and the blooms weren’t quite so enormous. Also, they were orange, which she seemed to have an unexpected fondness for. She sighed. Bulbs in general were so...plebeian. Really, they were only there at all as a gesture. A terribly obvious one, in her opinion, but one that needed to be made, just the same. A simple message that the old guard purebloods accepted the great Harry Potter and all that his sacrifices stood for.  
  
Muggleborns.  
  
She shuddered inwardly, and set to the task of adjusting the blooms. Really, she was going to have to talk to Muffy about this shoddy flower arranging. She thought about the parts of the manor yet to be inspected. The house party needed to go off exactly as she’d planned. She had never, in fact, hosted anything quite so important, so essential to the securing of her future happiness. And what a party it would be! Representatives from wizarding society gathering together for what were ostensibly purely social reasons. Pureblood, muggleborn, and everyone in between coming together for a week of well-mannered frivolity, showing the wizarding world that one year post-bellum, those from both sides were able to bury the hatchet. The importance of the event could not be overestimated. Everything depended on it.  
  
_Everything._  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Ron was beginning to become a tad bit concerned while conducting a discreet search of the manor's public spaces. He couldn’t find Harry anywhere, and he’d been walking around the bloody place for what seemed like an hour, at least. In a final act of desperation he decided to check the dining room. The afternoon tea had been served on the lawn, so thus far he’d had no reason to enter.  
  
He looked around, his palms sweating just a touch as he opened the door and walked inside. He looked around. The place must have been redone because it looked completely different, which helped. It helped a _lot_. A scuffling noise came from the wall. - the dumbwaiter, to be exact.  
  
He walked up noiselessly and stood there for a moment, listening. The sound of breathing was barely perceptible, but it was there, nonetheless.  
  
“Harry?” he whispered.  
  
“Ron?” a voice whispered back.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me. Uh. Why are you in the dumbwaiter? And why am I whispering?” Harry slid the door up and peered out.  
  
“I’m hiding from Bully,” he explained.  
  
“Why on earth should she be looking for you?” Ron asked, befuddled. Harry grimaced.  
  
“Your mother! She’s trying to set me up with ‘a nice girl,’ as she puts it, and sicced Bully on me at tea. She’s cornered me twice and now I’m here.” He looked around. “It’s quiet.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “It took me a while to talk myself into coming in here.” Harry nodded in agreement.  
  
“I know what you mean. The old place is full of memories. Let’s see. Hermione was tortured in _that_ corner, I think,” he said, pointing. “And over there is where Draco failed at being a Death Muncher. Salad days.”  
  
“Will we ever manage to have better?” Ron chuckled.  
  
“With determination, we just might,” he replied.  
  
“My mother shouldn’t be trying to set you up with anyone,” Ron said, frowning. “It’s not on.”  
  
“And yet.”  
  
“Well, I’ll try to get her to call off her dogs,” Ron remarked. Harry’s laugh rang through the empty room.  
  
“Bully,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Just as long as she doesn’t send Pug-nosed Parkinson my way.”  
  
“Yes, Slytherins are one thing, but there is a limit.”  
  
“It’s not that she’s actually bad looking or anything, but I refuse to date someone who’s suggested having me killed.” Harry sighed. “We can't sit here all evening. They’re going to come in to set the tables.”  
  
“Soon, I should think.”  
  
“Can’t they just use magic for that? I mean, they have elves.”  
  
“Yes,” Ron replied, “but please don’t bring it up around Hermione. I think it’s something to do with the house. This place was built by Muggles. Hence the dumbwaiter.”  
  
“I think the irony may actually kill me.”  
  
“Well come on, let’s get you out of here.”  
  
“Where to?” asked Harry.  
  
“I’ll run interference if we see Bully or my mother, and you hightail it to our room, alright?” Ron suggested.  
  
“You’ve been reading up on rugby, _haven’t you_?” Harry accused, grinning.  
  
“Look,” Ron replied, spreading his hands, “if we’re gonna be playing muggle games, I am bloody well going to win them.”  
  
“You’re awfully determined,” Harry observed.  
  
“These days, Harry, when I set my mind to something...”  
  
“I think it’s wonderful,” he replied. “It suits you. You...” He paused, searching for the word.  
  
“I what?”  
  
“You swagger.”  
  
“Swagger?” Ron asked, embarrassed yet pleased. He felt himself turning pink.  
  
“Swagger,” he affirmed with a nod. “It’s sexy. You’ll be fighting the birds off.” Ron’s smile faded slightly.  
  
“Right,” he said, testily. “With a cricket bat, maybe.”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
He’d never been to a house party before. Hell, he’d never been to anything remotely like this before. Seamus Finnigan was pretty sure that he was there in two capacities: as part of the small half blood delegation, and as part of the _poor_ delegation. It was easy to ignore these things while everyone was at Hogwarts, wearing the same uniforms day in and day out. But here...it was plainly obvious that he was not part of this world. He was a working class bloke. Part of the great blue collar tradition. Seamus Finnigan was Irish.  
  
It defined the most extravagant vacation that his family had ever indulged in. A trip within his own country to see Ireland play at the Quidditch World Cup. The family saved up just enough to spend the week there and rent a festive tent for the occasion. The fact that the whole getaway came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt when his current host decided to play dress-up with his friends...well. He’d try not to hold it against the lady of the house, anyway.  
  
Such thoughts swirled through Seamus’s mind as he made his way down the great staircase and was nearly knocked over by a very terrified looking Harry Potter, who was being trotted after by a gleeful Ron Weasley. Seamus shook his head and shrugged. Probably off to have sex, he imagined.  
  
Harry must have drawn the short straw.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
“Sunny Jim!” Narcissa called. A small house elf with a surprisingly luxurious black moustache, appeared in front of her.  
  
“Mistress is calling Sunny Jim?” he asked, his expression imperious.  
  
“Indeed I did. Now, I want you to make the curry I mentioned, and–”  
  
“Nay, Sunny Jim cannot be making such a dish! Is not proper and Sunny Jim will be doing no such thing. A nice cassoulet is being better. More fitting. Is French, it is.”  
  
“But I wanted the curry for a special reason. It’s a popular muggle dish. Please make the curry, there’s a dear.”  
  
“Sunny Jim does not make _popular muggle recipes_. Sunny Jim can be going elsewhere!” the little elf bellowed, inasmuch as an elf _could_ bellow. More a haughty squeak, really.  
  
“No, no!” Narcissa protested, frantically backtracking. “I’m sure cassoulet will be just fine. Thank you, Sunny Jim.” The elf nodded severely.  
  
“A nice cassoulet. Is proper dish.”  
  
“Indeed,” agreed Narcissa, relieved. She had just averted a true crisis. These free elves really were the limit. It was appalling that they should have to employ them. For _political_ reasons! Trying to hold on to the best chef they’d ever had took enormous care. At any moment he could grab his knives and leave.  
  
And then where would they be?  
  
“Cassoulet,” Sunny Jim repeated gravely.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
They had been napping for no more than ten minutes when they were both startled awake by the quiet hoot of Pig on the window ledge.  
  
“Whassa?” Harry mumbled, cracking one eye open.  
  
“Pig’s here with a letter.” Ron replied, sitting up. “Hey, I’m not going to bother you tonight am I? I can always find somewhere else to sleep if I do. I snore,” he added apologetically as he untied the letter from Pig’s leg.  
  
“Don’t be stupid, we’ve slept in the same room for years now. I don’t think keeping to your side of a state bed is going to be too much of a hassle.” Harry was still rubbing his eyes when Ron gave a startled yelp.  
“Bloody hell!” Ron went a deep scarlet and looked utterly confused.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Harry frowned.  
  
“Just read it!” Ron thrust the letter into Harry’s waiting hand.  
  
  
_My darling ginger,  
  
We’re almost done here. I’ll be there soon.  
  
Don’t wash.  
  
  
Love always,  
  
Your Popsy_  
  
  
“Yes, now that’s rather disgusting,” he said, scratching his jaw.  
  
“ _You_ think it’s disgusting?? Someone in my family is having an affair with a _house elf_!” Ron cried. Harry snorted.  
  
“I think it’s just a pet name.”  
  
“ _With an animal?!_ ” Ron looked horrified.  
  
“No, not an animal! A term of endearment. Like darling,” he explained. “Or Mollywobbles.”  
  
Ron winced.  
  
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He looked back to the letter. “Do you think that ‘don’t wash’ means what I think it does?”  
  
“You can just stop right there, thanks.” Ron looked pained.  
  
“I never imagined Dean would call himself such a thing.”  
  
“Don’t,” Ron warned.  
  
“Or Hermione, for that matter.”  
  
“ _Harry_.”  
  
“What do you think he calls Ginny, then?” Harry teased.

“That’s it. You asked for it!”  
  
Ron tackled him to the bed with remarkable speed.  
  
“Oof! That’s the best you’ve got, Ginger?” Harry egged. He loved to wrestle Ron.  
  
“I’ve got moves you couldn’t imagine, you speccy little git,” Ron grunted as he straddled him.  
  
“Prove it.”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Pansy picked at her meal. Pretending to enjoy French food was always tiresome. She’d much rather have a nice curry instead. She sighed and put down her fork altogether. The wine was so much better than the food. She surreptitiously wiped the lipstick off of her goblet with her thumb and looked around the table at the other guests.  
  
There were those to be expected at such a gathering. Zabini, Goyle, Bulstrode, the Greengrass sisters, young Baddock and herself. Also in attendance were most of the Weasleys, Potter, Longbottom, Smith, Lovegood, Abbot and Wood. Then there were those with official positions who were there in a supposedly _un_ official capacity: the new minister Shacklebolt, nosy Skeeter, that buffoon Bagman, and daffy old Doge. And Cissy’s poor Andy, of course. She considered the most unlikely of the guests. The halfbloods and muggleborns. Goldstein, Thomas, Granger, Creevey, and Finnigan.  
  
That idiot Longbottom was making eyes at Abbot across the table again. So disgustingly obvious. And what was this...so was Bagman! Pansy cringed and looked around for something else to look at that wasn’t quite so disturbing. Her eyes landed on Finnigan. If her assessment was correct, he’d be wearing the same suit the entire time he was here. She wondered if he’d brought more than one shirt.  
  
God, she wanted a cigarette, badly. And she wanted Draco to finally get off his lily-white arse and propose to her already. Perhaps if she shoved a finger up it, that might spur him to action.  
  
She pondered this as she finished her third glass of Minervois.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Seamus was gagging for a fag. Somehow he’d made it this far into the evening completely sober. A whisky and a smoke would be just the ticket. A fuck would be a bit much to ask for around here, but two out of three wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.  
  
As he walked by the french doors, he smelled tobacco. Good tobacco, too. He stepped out onto the veranda intending to beg one off of whoever it was.  
  
He was expecting someone like George or Ludo Bagman. Perhaps even Rita Skeeter. Instead, he came face to face with Pansy Parkinson smoking from a tiny silver cigarette holder.  
  
“What do you want, Finnigan?”  
  
“I was hoping to bum a fag, actually,” he answered truthfully. Pansy arched an eyebrow.  
  
“Is that so? Well, I suppose I’ll let you have one, just this once.”  
  
“Are they unfiltered?” he asked, nodding to her holder.  
  
“No,” she said, handing him a cigarette. “I just tear them off.”  
  
“I heard that birds eat them and die,” Seamus offered.  
  
“Shut up, Finnigan,” she replied in a disinterested voice, then lit his cigarette with the tip of her wand.  
  
“Thanks.” He stole a glance at her as she leaned on the balustrade next to him. She was curvy and petite. Her bobbed hair, smokey eyes and dark red lipstick made him sure she was going for a silent film siren sort of thing. Seamus wasn’t sure how well it actually worked, but the overall effect was not unpleasant.  
  
“So... do you like muggle cinema?” Pansy looked at him with surprise.  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“Erm, nothing.” He struck out for another topic. “So. Are you playing any of the games tomorrow? Football? Cricket? Rugby?” Pansy looked at him with a touch of pity.  
  
“It’s nice of you to try to make conversation, but you can’t honestly think that I intend to play rugby.”  
  
“I didn’t think.”  
  
“You want to talk? Alright. I’d advise you to make sure you’re in the drawing room later.”  
  
“Why’s that then?” Seamus asked, curious.  
  
“Andy’s been drinking. She’s sure to sing,” Pansy revealed conspiratorially.  
  
“Mrs Tonks?”  
  
“Yes. When she has too much to drink she always sings and starts harassing the men. It’s good for a laugh. Over Christmas holiday she drank all the sherry and ran out into the garden singing Quando m’en vo at the top of her lungs. We dragged her inside, but she didn’t stop singing until Cissy insisted that she go to bed.” Pansy looked thoughtful. “And she always sings the slatternly arias. Hmmm.”  
  
“What are the slatternly arias, then?” Seamus asked, amused.  
  
“Well, _Quando m’en vo_ is one. Perfectly lovely and sweet as long as you don’t know what Musetta’s saying. Things like, ‘everyone stops and stares at how beautiful I am, I can taste their yearning, the scent of their desire makes me happy.’ It’s a terrible song. Would you believe that people actually play it at weddings?”  
  
“You’ve ruined it for me, now. Ta.”  
  
“Shall I ruin _Carmen_ , then?” she asked, mischievously.  
  
“Please don’t!” he laughed.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m conversing amiably with a Gryffindor,” Pansy observed.  
  
“Worse things have happened, surely.” Seamus frowned.  
  
“You don’t say.” She stared at him, and he found himself succumb to her scrutiny. He had no idea what conclusions she came to. She sniffed. “Another cigarette?”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Harry sat next to Ron on a comfortable Greek Revival sofa.  
  
“I’m getting another drink,” Ron said. “Want one?” Harry looked around the room. Everyone seemed to be occupied, and perhaps the maxim ‘safety in numbers’ really was true.  
  
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just be quick about it, would you?”  
  
No sooner did Ron leave than he was joined by Andromeda Tonks.  
  
“Dear _Harry_ ,” she said, gazing at him with watery eyes.  
  
Harry wasn’t entirely certain just then why alarm bells began going off in his head, but it all became clear moments later when Andromeda touched his shoulder and began to explain why they could never be together.  
  
“I know it must tear at your very soul to hear me say this. Believe me, I know.”  
  
“Mrs Tonks, I–”  
  
“Shh, don’t speak! Don’t speak,” she commanded, placing a finger against his lips. The smell of heavy perfume floating up from her wrist mixed with the liquor on her breath. He did his best not to gag.  
  
Suddenly, like an angel come to rescue him, appeared Pugface Parkinson. “Andy, darling. Mr Doge insists that you come over and tell him about the first time you performed in front of an audience. He simply won’t be put off.” As she steered Andromeda away, he heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Later, if asked, he would deny that he had ever had any such thought about Pansy Parkinson.  
  
He sighed too soon.  
  
“Harry.” Bully sat in the empty seat beside him and took a deep breath in preparation for a speech, no doubt.  
  
“Bully,” he said politely.  
  
“Call me Millicent, Harry. Or Millie, since it’s you. But don’t tell anyone else I let you call me that, haha!” she barked. Harry was cornered. There was nothing for it but to wait until Ron got back. “Now. It’s important that we discuss your future. You can hardly expect me to consider marrying you if you haven’t some sort of plan for action.”  
  
“Plan for action?” he echoed weakly.  
  
“Yes. You need a career that builds on your past achievements. Something that will put you in line for greater things. I know how much you regard me–”  
  
“You do?” he asked, bewildered.  
  
“Indeed I do, but it is not enough to make me put a ring on my finger. You must prove yourself with actions, not just words!” She continued on in this vein for some time and finally gave him a hearty slap on the back as she stood up. “You think about what I’ve said, Harry.” She nodded and walked away just as Ron was returning with their ridiculously large drinks.  
  
“Christ, Harry, I’m sorry! Look, do you want to take these and get out of here?”  
  
“Yes, _please_ ,” he nodded vehemently. “You missed Andromeda break it to me that we’d never be together!”  
  
“She _what_?” Ron asked, baffled.  
  
“She was completely off her face, convinced I was in love with her. Why does everyone think I'm in love with them, Ron?”  
  
“God, have you ever had a rough evening. Come on, up the stairs.”  
  
On the second landing Ron stopped and stared at a folded piece of parchment laying stark against the red carpet.  
“What do you reckon?” he asked. Harry shrugged.  
  
“Pick it up and see,” he said, leaning against the railing, glugging his sundowner.  
  
Ron retrieved the parchment and unfolded it, handing his drink to Harry. He let out a low whistle.  
  
“Well, well, well. This is just...filthy!” he said with an enormous grin. “Haha!” He handed it over to Harry.  
  
  
_My fat little minx,  
  
Every moment not spent fucking your tits is a moment wasted, in my opinion. I’m imagining, right at this very moment, slicking up my cock and burying it between your huge creamy globes and fucking, fucking, fucking until I-  
"Ron! I can't read this!" Ron sniggered.  
  
"Skip to the end if you must." Tonight, will you write on my cock with your QQ quill? And if I bring back your knickers, will you let me have last night’s pair?  
  
In your thrall,  
  
Oliver_  
  
  
“Holy fucking shit, Oliver wrote this!” Harry cried, astonished.  
  
“Shh!” Ron hissed. “Let’s just put it back where we found it and go to our room!”  
  
“Who’s it to, d’ye think?” Harry slurred.  
  
“Fuck if I know. What’s a QQ quill?”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Seamus sat in the drawing room, listening to the various conversations going on around him.  
  
“Well, Mr Doge, I’ll tell you. Jane Eaglen started Hogwarts my seventh year, such a sweet girl. I could see that she had a natural talent straight away. If there were only one reason to maintain the statute of secrecy, it would be to protect our sopranos.”  
  
“Really, dear, and why is that?” asked Elphias Doge.  
  
“Why Mr Doge,” Andromeda replied, “Wherever would the world be without coloratura? Only witches have such demanding vocal flexibility. It would be a very sad place indeed without _Der Hölle Rache_ , don’t you agree?”  
  
“Why yes, of course, my dear. To my great shame, I was not aware of the role witches played in the lyric arts,” Doge twittered.  
  
“Who are you staying with now, Baddock?” asked George Weasley. The slight Baddock stared at him as though he’d grown two heads. There was something distinctly odd about him, in Seamus’s opinion.  
  
“My aunt Agatha. She’s a batty old cow who ought not to exist at all.”  
  
George raised his eyebrows. “Er, that’s nice, then. I have an aunt Agatha, too.”  
  
“Oh! So do I!” piped in Ginny, grinning.  
  
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed George.  
  
“There’s nothing remarkable about that,” interjected Goyle, simply. “Everyone has an aunt Agatha, don’t they?”  
  
“Those who enter our society as muggleborns are necessarily the same as the nouveau riche– inconsiderate and completely lacking in refined tastes,” stated Lucius Malfoy.  
  
“Of course the nouveau riche are inconsiderate. That’s why they have so much money,” explained Blaise Zabini, nodding.  
  
From the first moment Blaise Zabini opened his mouth, people usually wished he’d close it again, Seamus included. He saw Pansy looking on, bored.  
  
“I’m back,” said Goldstein, perching himself on the arm of the highback Seamus currently occupied.  
  
“What were you up to?”  
  
“Just freshening up, eh?” he winked.  
  
“Forgive me, everyone, but I have an important announcement to make!” Everyone stopped to look at Draco Malfoy standing by the mantle.  
  
Seamus noted the small nods exchanged between father and son.  
  
“There are times in a man’s life when he must stand around and wait for his beautiful wife to get ready.” A tinkle of laughter made its way across the room. “I am here to report that very soon I, too, will be able to participate in this most thrilling of pastimes. Ladies and gentlemen, I have asked for my own Queenie, Daphne Greengrass’s hand in marriage, and am elated to report that she has accepted!”  
  
Applause filled the room as Draco and Queenie held hands and shared a small kiss.  
  
“My god, that girl’s plucky!” remarked Goldstein.  
  
Seamus looked over to where he indicated. Pansy was standing there with a glass of champagne in one hand, a huge smile plastered to her face.  
  
She was white as a sheet.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Pansy left the room as soon as was possible without being completely unseemly, after her hosts had taken to milling around on their own again, and walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom. The same bedroom that she’d stayed in for years, every time she’d ever visited the manor.  
  
Years.  
  
“Oops! So sorry, sir!” Queenie Greengrass apologised quickly as she closed the wrong door. She giggled ditzily at Pansy as she walked next door to her own room.  
  
Pansy studiously ignored her and entered the room. She closed the door behind her and sank to the floor, swallowing the lump that lodged in her throat.  
  
She was not going to cry.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
“And then Ginny told George to open the cupboard and it got everywhere, all over his hands and down his pants. Everywhere!”  
  
Harry gasped into his empty cup and let the tears of laughter flow. Ron had Muffy bring them refills on their sundowners, and they were now drunken puddles on the floor. Several fits of laughter later, he finally managed to catch his breath.  
  
“She’s been so good. He’s so much better.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, looking at the door bleary eyed. “When did that get there?”  
  
“Another letter? What the fuck is with all these letters? Do you think it’s actually for one of us this time?”  
  
Harry grabbed it and unfolded it to read.  
  
_Dennis-  
  
I say, but I couldn’t help noticing you eyeing Potter’s arse today at tea. Not that I blame you. I happen to know, though, that he’s off the market. Not to say that I’m certain, but everyone’s pretty sure he’s being fucked by Weasley. However, this is all beside the point.  
  
If you fancy anything, I’m always up for it. I can give you a very thorough education, I don’t mind telling you. I’m quite gentle. In fact, you could even fuck me for the first go, if you like. If you’re interested, just knock on my door tonight, yes?  
  
-Anthony_  
  
  
Harry swallowed and stared at the paper. He could feel the blood rush into his face.  
  
“Well what does it say?” Ron pressed.  
  
“Just...” he began, then fell into silence. Ron snatched the letter away. Harry watched his face turn the deepest shade of scarlet he’d seen yet. Ron cleared his throat and stood up.  
  
“Dennis is across the hall. I’ll just go slip it...er...yeah.”  
  
Harry nodded dumbly. His head felt heavy, his limbs buzzing with something that felt strangely like electricity.  
  
Finally climbing into bed wasn’t the relief that it should have been. They both lay there, Harry still in his t-shirt and boxers, laying prone, listening to the other one breathe in the dark.  
  
“I...” Ron started.  
  
“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to say anything. You still gonna play rugby tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ron said, though he didn’t sound exactly relieved. “If it doesn’t rain.”  
  
Just then a clap of thunder announced the oncoming storm.  
  
“No rugby, then,” Harry whispered.  
  
“No.”  
  
The thunder continued so loudly it rattled the windows every so often. It was strangely soothing. He let the cacaphony lull him to sleep, erasing the awkwardness that threatened to suffocate him. He drifted into such a state of comfort, he didn’t register anything but peace when two fingers came to gently rest overtop his.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Seamus woke with a start as a loud bang echoed through the house. A bang that was decidedly not thunder. He hopped out of bed and opened the door, wand in hand.  
  
The corridor was still dark. He saw another door open. Pansy peeked out.  
  
“Finnigan, is that you? Cast a _lumos_!”  
  
“Parkinson?”  
  
“Yes. I just heard the most glorious what-not, but I can’t tell where it was coming from.”  
  
“ _Lumos_.” Pansy looked him up and down.  
  
“You have a lovely build, and if I were you I’d show it off, too, but you really ought to put a shirt on before Andy sees you,” she suggested bluntly.  
  
“Huh?” he asked, distracted. “Any idea what time it is?”  
  
“Just past four,” she informed him. Just then, more doors began to open.  
  
“What is going on out here?” asked Neville, rubbing his eyes, clutching his mimbletonia.  
  
“I was just going to ask that, myself,” barked Bully.  
  
“Millie, what’s all the fuss?” Asteria asked, grabbing Bully’s sleeve.  
  
“Did everyone hear that?” Dennis asked, coming from Goldstein’s room, strangely enough.  
  
“Oh balls!” whispered Ginny.  
  
“Ginny?” Dean whispered. “What did you do?”  
  
“George?” Hermione hissed.  
  
“She didn’t do anything,” George answered. “She helped me distract Mr Bagman while I put a leak in his hot water bottle. It wasn’t supposed to _explode_.”  
  
“That wasn’t an exploding hot water bottle, I’m afraid.” Luna piped in.  
  
“I say, if you lot are going to have loud parties out here and keep me up all night, I’m asking to be moved downstairs,” Smith said in a harassed voice.  
“Yes, some of us are trying to _sleep_ ,” seconded Zabini.  
  
“It sounded like a .22 to me,” offered Goyle. “You know, a muggle pistol?” Everyone turned and looked at him with respect and admiration.  
  
“You know something, Goyle? I think you may be right,” Seamus said, impressed.  
  
“Of course he is. You’re very smart, Greg.” Hannah patted his shoulder.  
  
“I’ll go wake Harry and Ron,” Hermione informed them. “Those two will sleep through anything.  
  
“You’ve got an awfully brave fiancee,” Goldstein told George.  
  
“Or an awfully kinky one,” George agreed.  
  
“No one cares about your kinky girlfriend, Weasley. Now, if the sound came from downstairs, and Mr Bagman isn’t down there thrashing about the hallway soaked, and it sounded like a gun, I say we go down there and find out what’s happened.” Pansy looked around at everyone expectantly. “Finnigan?” she suggested.  
  
“I’ll just go grab my shirt.”  
  
“No! Here, just take my housecoat,” Pansy said quickly. A shade suspiciously, Seamus, thought.  
  
“I couldn’t bring myself to wake them,” Hermione said as joined them, a curious expression on her face.  
  
“Everyone go back to bed. We’ll let you know if anything’s wrong.” Seamus told everyone.  
  
“I have absolutely no problem with that,” replied Dean.  
  
Seamus watched Pansy tiptoe two steps ahead of him down the staircase in her flimsy pink negligee.  
  
“Aren’t you going to get cold in that thing? You should take your housecoat back.”  
  
“Nonsense. We must protect your virtue,” she replied dismissively.  
  
“What about yours?” She ignored him and paused.  
  
“Now, who is staying on the first floor?”  
  
“Mostly the older people, I think. Bagman, Doge, Mrs Tonks, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Percy Weasley, Wood, Shacklebolt and Skeeter,” he ticked off on his fingers.  
  
“Draco’s room and the Malfoy’s rooms are on that floor, also,” Pansy added.  
  
“They sleep in separate rooms?”  
  
“Oh, you know. All rich people do.”  
  
“I have a very hard time believing that.”  
  
As they rounded into the corridor, they saw that another gathering was taking place, similar to the one upstairs, but huddled around one particular set of doors..  
  
“You two. Come here!” boomed Kingsley Shacklebolt. They rushed over to the others.  
  
“What’s happening here?” asked Pansy.  
  
Kingsley looked at them and said in a voice grave and sober, “Our host has been murdered.”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Ron woke with his arms wrapped around Harry, whose face was tucked into his chest. Ron buried his nose into the unruly mop of black hair and breathed in deeply. He could feel Harry’s cock stiff against his thigh. He ran his fingers up under the t-shirt, feeling the knots of his best friend’s spine beneath his smooth skin. Harry let out a little sigh and began a gentle, sleepy thrust against his leg.  
  
He wanted more than anything to reach down and hold him in his palm. Feel him heavy and warm in his hand. Slide his tongue between his lips and kiss him softly.  
  
Instead, he settled for a peck to the top of Harry’s head before disentangling himself and moving back to his own side of the bed.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Breakfast was a somber affair. Word had spread quickly about the house that Lucius Malfoy was dead, but no one was quite sure how to act.  
  
It certainly didn’t help that Narcissa was wearing a bright and colorful sundress. Pansy was baffled. On the one hand, she was pleased that Narcissa was treating her as usual, considering that she must not expect her to be a daughter-in-law someday. But then, that was just the problem. She was acting just as usual, possibly even cheerier than before. Gone was the dour madonna of literally yesterday hiding some terrible, secret sorrow. One that nobody already knew about, anyway. Narcissa Malfoy appeared genuinely _happy_. Of course, Pansy didn’t believe for a moment that she had anything whatsoever to do with the murder.  
  
Suddenly, it hit her like a tonne of bricks.  
  
She had a plan.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
“Attention, everyone!” Kingsley Shacklebolt announced. “Are we all here? Good. By now you will all have heard about this morning’s tragedy, but I will fill in the blanks for you. Just after four in the morning, Lucius Malfoy was shot in his private quarters with his own Muggle pistol. I am personally conducting the investigation to determine the identity of his killer. This party was scheduled for one week, and I will have to insist that you all, each and every one of you remain here at Malfoy Manor until the investigation is concluded.”  
  
Groans could be heard around the table.  
  
“Do you reckon everyone will have more fun now he’s dead?” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry shivered.  
  
“I know I will,” he murmured truthfully.  
  
“Are you going to play in the match today, too?”  
  
“I suppose. It’s muddy, but why not?” Though now that he thought about it, getting muddy with Ron could prove embarrassing.  
  
“...and I will have to conduct interviews with each of you, in turn,” Shacklebolt’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts. “Please do not be alarmed by this, it is strictly routine. In the meantime, consider the events of last night, making particular note of anything that may have seemed unusual to you. Good day.”  
  
“And do try to enjoy the rest of your stay, would you?” added Narcissa.  
  
“Is it just me,” Harry said in a low voice, “or is Narcissa acting weird?” Ron looked to where she was sitting, sipping a mimosa.  
  
“I’d say you’re right. It’s as though she’s trying to hide how pleased she is.”  
  
“Yes!” exclaimed Harry. “That’s it exactly!” Ron looked at him, a mischievous smile crossing his face.  
  
“What say we do a little investigating, eh? Make up for missing the party this morning?”  
  
Harry broke into a huge smile.  
  
“Harry? A word.” Molly Weasley’s business like tone caused the smile to fade from his face.  
  
“Yes, Molly?”  
  
“I want to hear how you’re getting on with Millicent.”  
  
“Er, Molly, I’m terribly sorry, but I just don’t think it’s going to work.”  
  
“Why, nonsense! What Millie needs is someone to shape. To _mold_ ,” Molly insisted.  
  
“I’m not malleable! I’m hard as a rock!” Harry protested loudly.  
  
“We hardly needed to know that, Potter,” Draco commented from down the table. He’d caught George’s attention, too.  
  
“Just what sort of conversation are you having with my mother?”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Seamus stepped off the patio and took a long drag off his newly acquired Dunhill. A stroll around the manor grounds while it wasn’t raining seemed like a nice idea. It wasn’t as though there were anything else to do. As he rounded the path that circled the east wing, he came face to arse with Pansy, who was attempting to climb up the wall trellis in a pencil skirt.  
  
He simply stood there and continued to smoke, staring up at her pleasantly heart shaped bottom, waiting for the Oxford shoe to drop.  
  
Suddenly she froze and sniffed the air. As she turned to glance back over her shoulder, several things happened at once. She gave a startled gasp of recognition, followed closely by letting go with her left hand, and finally with her foot twisting in the trellis. Seamus caught her, much as he expected he’d have to.  
  
“Oof!” She looked up at him, arms round his neck. “Nice catch, Finnigan.”  
  
“No problem,” he replied, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.  
  
“You can put me down now.”  
  
“Oh. Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “What exactly were you doing up there?”  
  
“Investigating,” she explained with a defiant tilt of the chin. “I’m going to find out who killed Lucius and win Draco back.” Seamus frowned.  
  
“Why would you want to win back Malfoy? He’s a twitchy little rodent.”  
  
“He’s a blond Adonis.”  
  
“He’s a blond git,” he corrected.  
  
“I’m going to win him back and marry him. We’ll have two children, one of each, and I’ll have elves and a Hufflepuff nanny and a Ravenclaw tutor. I'll help Narcissa redecorate the manor. You should see the third floor!” She pulled a face of distaste.  
  
“Huh.” Seamus thought she was completely bonkers.  
  
“He’ll stride up to me and say, ‘Pansy, you are simply it! I’m completely besotted, my darling! Let’s elope tonight!’ Then he’ll pick me up and carry me across the threshold of his room and toss me onto the bed and lift my skirt and–”  
  
“Ahhh, stop right there,” he interrupted.  
  
“He’ll ravage me senseless,” she said with determination.  
  
“Got it all planned out, have you?”  
  
“Indeed I do. I just need to solve this. You’ll see.”  
  
“Why don’t you marry Zacharias Smith instead? He’s just like Malfoy only less evil.”  
  
“A Hufflepuff, Finnigan?” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you Gryffindors have no standards. She eyed his fag. “We’re not allowed to leave the house, so where _did_ you get those?”  
  
“Muffy nicked them from our late host’s study for me. Want one?”  
  
“Stealing a dead man’s cigarettes? How tacky,” she observed, accepting one nonetheless.  
  
“Ah, but I now have three packs of an otherwise useless luxury item,” he pointed out.  
  
“Hmm. Well, it’s been the time of my life, really, but I must get back to work.”  
  
“I think I’ll stick around if you don’t mind. Extra set of eyes can’t hurt. And someone has to catch you. Climbing in that getup? You’re out of your tiny mind, woman.”  
  
“If you must,” she assented. “You can be the brawn to my brains.”  
  
“Quite,” Seamus agreed.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
After breakfast Harry and Ron put their careful plan into execution.  
  
This mostly involved sneaking around after Narcissa Malfoy in a rather unstealthy fashion.  
  
“Perhaps we should send off for some of those special shoes,” Ron suggested. “Mugshoes, I believe they’re called. Get us into the proper spirit of things.”  
“Your tie is crooked,” Harry observed. His fingers itched to fix it, but he’d avoided touching Ron all morning. Their normal shoulder bumping boyish interaction had seemed to come to a crashing halt since last night’s letter. Things felt dashed awkward, for his part, and it seemed to Harry that sneaking around the manor on a little adventure was just the thing to ease some of the tension.  
  
“Hallo, what’s this? Another!” Harry gestured to the sealed parchment laying on the floor of the hall just behind the gong.  
  
“I’m damned,” exclaimed Ron. “This letter business is getting awfully ripe. Your turn, I think.” Harry bent down to retrieve the letter. “Good man.” Ron took it and tapped the seal with his wand, unrolling it. His face...  
  
“You know, it’s the most remarkable thing, you look just like a fish right now. It’s nothing to do with us, is it?”  
  
Ron gave a jerky shake of the head and thrust it towards Harry.  
  
  
_To the one who knows me best,  
  
Last night I started this after all the commotion. You’d already drifted back to sleep, but I had no desire to do so. I couldn’t stop staring at you, laying there asleep. I gave serious consideration to parting your legs while you were dreaming and having my way with you. But... the moonlight. It still shone in through the window. Your skin was lit up like marble. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  
  
I hope that my drawing says I love you with more eloquence than my words can. God knows I can’t wait to touch you again.  
  
Your artist,  
  
D_  
  
  
Those words were written at the top of the page above a charcoal sketch. Ginny was stretched out, nude. It was full of shadow and light and really quite lovely.  
  
“That’s awfully romantic,” Harry smiled.  
  
“That’s awfully my _sister_! Just seal it, would you?” Ron begged. He complied.  
  
“I definitely don’t think we should leave this where we found it.”  
  
“I should bloody well think not!” Ron agreed vehemently.  
  
“Let’s bring it up to their room, alright?”  
  
A few minutes later, errand accomplished, they walked back down the staircase only to find their quarry arguing with a house elf.  
  
“That was easy enough,” murmured Ron.  
  
“I’m terribly sorry, but you must!” Narcissa insisted.  
  
“Sunny Jim is refusing to use charmed vittles! Sunny Jim is not having it! Sunny Jim is to be getting his knives!”  
  
“But I don’t _understand_. Why ever not?”  
  
“Is affecting the flavor! Is not right! Is insupportable!”  
  
The scene was attracting an audience. Harry could see Kingsley and Doge watching from the entrance to the parlor, and Parkinson had just walked in with Seamus from somewhere in the back of the house.  
  
“Sunny Jim, how are you?” Parkinson interrupted.  
  
“Sunny Jim is not being so well, actually,” the elf answered grimly.  
  
“Good. Now, I promised Narcissa that I would help out while I was here, and I wanted to talk to you about the food situation. Are we running out?”  
  
“We is not having anything fresh, miss. We is only having charmed. Sunny Jim does not cook with charmed comestibles. Is tasting nasty.”  
  
“Oh dear, then we’ll just have to come up with something else, won’t we? Have you considered an icebox?”  
  
“Icebox?” asked the elf, suspiciously.  
  
“Yes, or a frigidaire, the Muggles call them,” she explained. “You keep food fresh without charms by putting them in a box with great blocks of ice. Doesn’t that sound like such fun?”  
  
“Is sounding unnatural,” Sunny Jim grumbled. “Is flying against nature, it is.”  
  
“Nonsense. Mother Nature is all very well in her place, but she mustn’t be allowed to make things untidy. Think of it, nice cold milk that you don’t have to charm, your vegetables will last longer, too, all without affecting the taste. What do you say?”  
  
To Harry’s great surprise, the elf was beginning to yield.  
  
“Cold milk? Where would miss be getting such a thing?” he asked, twiddling his tiny moustache thoughtfully.  
  
“We could get one from the town and bring it back here. And uncharmed food to put in it, of course. Minister?”  
  
Harry watched as Kingsley considered the proposal.  
  
“I could make an exception for a supply run,” he replied, addressing the elf.  
  
“We’ll go!” Ron shouted down from the landing.  
  
“How do you propose to get there? Broomstick?” Harry pointed out. “Plus you’d miss the rugby, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“I could drive there in my two seater,” offered Parkinson.  
  
“You have a car?” Seamus asked with surprise.  
  
“Don’t look so shocked, Finnigan,” she admonished.  
  
“I’m going with her,” he said quickly. “I mean, if it’s alright with you sir,” he added sheepishly.  
  
“That will be fine, but I’ll need to talk to the two of you in the study before you go.” With that, Kingsley walked to the room in question and waited just past the door, expectantly.  
  
“Thank you, my dear,” Narcissa said, grabbing Parkinson’s hand. “I’m so very...” Harry thought she looked a bit regretful, but couldn’t imagine how that could have anything to do with Pugface.  
  
“I used to have an automobile,” Doge prattled. “I have such fond memories of going up to town in the Hispano. Ah, but she was a spanking fine goer.”  
  
No one paid him any attention.  
  
“Look,” Ron whispered, nudging Harry in the ribs. “There she goes into the billiard room. Come on.” They walked down into the hall on the trail of Narcissa Malfoy.  
  
“Ahem.” They stopped, and Harry looked to his right only to find Kingsley staring at the two of them. “You boys, too.” He cocked his head, directing them to enter the study.  
  
The four of them sat down on the leather couches that faced each other across a low table.  
  
“I want to discuss the detective work the four of you have been engaged in.”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise.  
  
“Haha,” laughed Ron. “Sniffing around, eh Parkinson?”  
  
“One more word about my nose, Weasley, and I’ll hex your balls off,” she replied sweetly.  
  
“That’s enough, you two,” Kingsley interrupted. “Now, I’ve seen the four of you snooping around the house all morning and–”  
  
“We’re sorry, sir,” Harry interrupted. “We just thought we’d–”  
  
“–and I wanted to know if you have found anything,” he finished.  
  
“Oh! Well, we’ve been keeping an eye on Mrs Malfoy.”  
  
“Or the _merry widow_ , as we like to call her,” laughed Ron.  
  
“Oh, shut _up_!” Parkinson cried angrily. “She had nothing to do with this!”  
  
“Who are you kidding? She’s been prancing about like it’s Christmas all day long!” Ron countered.  
  
“Just you leave her alone.”  
  
“Mate,” said Harry, “let’s not, alright?” Ron’s temper was clearly rising, and Harry placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. It seemed to work all by itself, because Ron was visibly soothed. He looked at Harry and gave a little nod. It was probably his imagination, but it felt as though Ron moved closer against his hand. He had no choice but to leave it there.  
  
“Well, if you can manage to be a little more discreet than you’ve been so far, I’d like you to keep doing it,” Kingsley instructed.  
  
“But sir!” Parkinson objected.  
  
“Miss Parkinson, in a murder investigation it would be remiss not to investigate the widowed spouse. Consider it strictly routine.”  
  
“He’s right,” Seamus affirmed. She pursed her lips and said nothing.  
  
“As for the two of you,” Kingsley went on, addressing Seamus, “I want you to find out what people heard last night. Find out who was absent, who wasn’t where they were supposed to be. After your errand, of course.”  
  
Seamus nodded his assent. “You can count on us, sir. Right, Parkinson?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it. Report back to me if you find anything of interest.”  
They were dismissed.  
  
  
“I hope Narcissa likes to watch rugby,” Ron commented once they were outside. “Hey, if Seamus isn’t playing, maybe we can get Percy to step in.” They saw Neville wandering aimlessly in the garden with his _mimbulus mimbletonia_ , wearing a planter hat.  
  
“Why’s he still carrying around that plant?” Harry wondered aloud.  
  
“He always does, he’s obsessed with it. I think he’s a little touched these days, if you want my opinion. Oi, Neville!” Ron called. Neville waved over to them.  
  
“Hallo. You chaps haven’t seen a house elf around, have you?”  
  
“Only the cook. Why?” replied Harry.  
  
“I’m looking for Buck Buck, the gardener,” Neville explained, approaching. “Want to show him my plant.”  
  
“Of course,” nodded Harry.  
  
“What on earth is behind all these elf names? Sunny Jim, Buck Buck. You haven’t heard of a Popsy, by chance, have you?” asked Ron suddenly.  
  
“Popsy?” Neville answered, thinking. “No, but there is a Soggy Muff. They’re all siblings, I believe.”  
  
“Good. That’s good.”  
  
“Soggy muff?” repeated Harry. “That’s horrible!”  
  
“Is it? Muffy, you know.” Ah. Poor thing. And there Harry had thought _Muffy_ was a strange name. “Well, I’m off. Got to find him soon if I’m going to play in the match this afternoon.”  
  
And with that, Neville shambled off into the rose garden.

~~~~~

"So, er, what kind of car is it?” Seamus asked, marching across the courtyard alongside Pansy to the carriage house.  
  
“A Rolls.”  
  
“Huh.” She stopped abruptly and looked at him.  
  
“Do you have some sort of problem with that?” she bristled.  
  
“No, no. Not at all,” Seamus backtracked. He found himself just a touch intimidated by the look on her face, truth be told.  
  
“Explain yourself, Finnigan.”  
  
“Nothing against it, it’s a fantastic make, it’s just...well, when you rich people buy cars you don’t really use your imaginations, do you?”  
  
“Who told you I was rich?” she asked defensively.  
  
“Well, aren’t you?” He was deeply confused now. Pansy Parkinson seemed made of money.  
  
“No, I’m not, as a matter of fact. My father lost all his money in the war. He tried to think ahead and invested in muggle luxury items that the Death Eaters would be likely to disregard, and put them in my name. At least I got to choose them.” She pointed at the carriage house with a cool hand. “These cars are all I have.”  
  
“Oh. I...I didn’t mean to...sorry, but did you say _cars_?”  
  
Pansy smirked, and not for the first time did Seamus feel a surprising wave of anticipation. She unlatched the door and looked back over her shoulder, a coy smile replacing the smirk.  
  
“As for my imagination...” She flung wide the first carriage door to reveal a black Rolls Royce roadster with a cream retractable roof. Seamus gave a low whistle. “That’s a 1977 Corniche. Custom two-seater,” she boasted. She threw open the next door.  
  
Next to it, _ohhh_ next to it... a red vision out of his dreams.  
  
“Is that...is that a _Stratos_?” he asked breathlessly. Pansy grinned from ear to ear, watching him.  
  
“That’s right. A 1971 Lancia Stratos HF with a Ferrari engine. He’s a prize. Incredibly rare.” She must have seen the drool that threatened to drip from the corner of his mouth, because her next words were pure charity. “Go on. You can touch him.” Seamus ran his fingers over the hood.  
  
“Merlin, you make that sound so homoerotic,” he whispered, bending over to rub his cheek against the driver’s side mirror.  
  
“Christ, Finnigan,” she laughed.  
  
“Parkinson, you’ll be needing to leave us alone for a while. I’m about to make sweet love to your boy here.”  
  
“Ah Finnigan! You only _think_ you’ve seen it all,” she chided. “Come over here.” He followed her to the next carriage door. “Have a look at my girl.” She opened the door and Seamus felt his mouth go completely dry.  
  
“A _clubman_?”  
  
“Tsk. Come now, that’s not just any clubman! That’s a Lotus Seven! We’re taking the Rolls because I charmed the boot. Cigarette?”  
  
She was gorgeous. Luscious green with a silvery metallic sheen, her finish like a piece of cloisonne. All of her details were silver: the hubcaps, the fenders, the light cages.  
  
“The colors!” he ejaculated, taking the smoke she handed him.  
  
“I’m a Slytherin. What did you expect?”  
  
“How can something so phallic be a girl?” he wondered aloud.  
  
“You’re such a boy, Finnigan.”  
  
“Seamus,” he corrected.  
  
“Pansy,” she replied, extending a brown knuckleless gloved hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Lunch was a strange affair. Draco was keeping a stiff upper lip, which, surprisingly, made Ron _less_ suspicious of him. George was being even more deferential towards Hermione than usual, taking all of her jibes in as meek a manner as he’d ever seen.  
  
“You must stop being such a bad influence,” she admonished. “I can hear your sister’s brain cells dying from across the room.”  
  
“Bollocks. You know you only love me because I’m clever,” he said affectionately.  
  
“You? Clever? You don’t even _read_.”  
  
Narcissa whispered something to Percy at the table which resulted in him offering to take Seamus’s spot in the Rugby game.  
  
“I’m not much good at contact sports, but I understand that we’re to wear shorts?”  
  
Doge seemed to have gotten into his head that young Baddock was studying to be a healer, and entered into a long and excruciatingly detailed and literally colourful account of his bowel troubles for the past sixteen years– nearly as old as Baddock himself. His present flatulence was causing the occasional guest at the table to drop his or her fork approximately every 3 minutes.  
“Back when I was a young man, potions tasted as they were meant to taste. None of your claptrap mint nonsense. When a man was given a spoonful he knew in his very bones that he was being thoroughly physicked.” Baddock stared at him with what appeared to be an avid fascination.  
  
“You _are_ a windbag,” he said, eyes wide.  
  
Ron looked over at Harry seated next to him, picking at a chicken breast. He did so love to see him in a suit. These muggle getups were extremely flattering to one of his build. He decided that he preferred the long tie over the bow-tie. Both required his assistance to knot, but there were advantages to the long tie. First, he could pretend that he couldn’t get the half-windsor knot _quite_ right, and redo it as many as three times, thus making the whole process take longer. Second, it felt somewhat like a leash, which he had to admit was a little bit sexy.  
  
The whole concept was making him throb in his pants. He quickly switched his attention to Doge.  
  
Suddenly, the old fart let an enormous one rip, causing everyone in the room to breathe through their mouths. Just then Greg Goyle walked in, hands in pockets.  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” he remarked, then sniffed the air, smiling. “Are we having Chinese food for lunch? Lovely!”  
  
“Ugh, sit down you troglodyte,” commanded Malfoy.  
  
“He just accused you of living in a cave, Goyle,” Baddock revealed.  
  
“What utter nonsense!” exclaimed Hannah Abbot. “I’m sure he’s never lived in a cave, have you Greg?”  
  
“No, I can’t say that I have. What made you think I lived in a cave, Draco?” he asked, flummoxed.  
  
“Greg,” George interrupted hastily, “what do you think of the new quidditch shop in Hogsmeade?”  
  
“Hogsmeade? Gosh, I dunno. I don’t believe I’ve ever been there,” he replied.  
  
“Yes you have, Greg. Every third Saturday for the past six years!” Hermione said, embarrassed.  
  
“Oh, _that_ Hogsmeade!”  
  
“Honestly, Goyle. I’m surprised you can remember which room is yours,” said Draco, scathingly.  
  
“Oh!” exclaimed Queenie.  
  
“Everything alright, love?” asked Draco.  
  
“Yes, yes of course. Just thinking.”  
  
“Tch. You know you’re not very pretty when you think.”  
  
“Let’s go see if we can find something to eat where there’s less of a pong, eh?” Ron murmured into Harry’s ear.  
  
“Yeah, alright.” Harry drained the last of his pumpkin juice and followed Ron out of the dining room and down the back staircase.  
  
“I’m pretty sure this is the way.”  
  
They came face to face with a set of double swinging doors and nodded at each other in agreement. This had to be it. The home of friendly house elves ready to shove meat pies and eclairs into their waiting hands. Harry pushed open the door and the two walked in.  
  
“What ho! Gods of the kitchen!” Ron proclaimed, clapping his hands together.  
  
They were met with the bulbous stares of three very shocked house elves. Mere seconds later, Sunny Jim was upon him, brandishing an enormous cleaver.  
  
“You is not to be in here! Is not the place for guests! You is to be going _NOW!_ ”  
  
To say that they ran away as fast as they could would be fairly accurate.  
  
“On second thought,” suggested Ron, panting, “perhaps we’d better just change into our rugby clothes.”  
  
Harry nodded in complete agreement.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was shining and the Rolls was running like a dream. It soon became clear to Seamus, however, that Pansy had a cheerful disregard for such things as speed limits. In fact, her driving was scaring the living daylights out of him, and she seemed to be poorly misinformed as to the proper care of a standard transmission.  
  
“You’re going to ruin the gears like that!” he admonished.  
  
“Parts,” she replied with an airy wave of the hand. Seamus was horrified, to put it simply.  
  
“You shouldn’t say that if you don’t know how to fix it yourself.”  
  
“Come now. With a good wrench, anyone, even a mechanic, can fix a car.”  
  
“Watch it now, my da’s a mechanic.”  
  
“Oh! Is he really?” she exclaimed, taking her eyes off the road completely, this time. “How wonderful!”  
  
“Pansy, _please_ let me drive,” he begged, clutching the side of the door fearfully.  
  
“Not on your life, sir!” she laughed.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Harry had never realised that a sport played on the ground could be anywhere near as fun as one played in the air. That, of course, was before he’d discovered the tackling.  
  
He found he had an uncanny ability to tackle Ron without him noticing the approach, and being able to do so with the excuse of the game was extremely convenient.  
  
“Come on lads, we’re not playing union here! Get back to the centre, Potter, and stop tackling your own team’s hooker!” shouted Dean.  
  
“I thought you said we were playing union,” hollered Malfoy.  
  
“No, he said we were playing league,” corrected Dennis.  
  
“Not as though you know the difference,” called Goldstein.  
  
“Fuck off, Goldstein,” Draco called back.  
  
“I don’t see why I have to play scrum-half,” complained Baddock.  
  
“It’s because you’re the smallest, I believe,” explained Zabini, tactlessly.  
  
“Don’t listen to him, Baddock. It’s an incredibly important position,” said Wood.  
  
“I don’t want to play some ridiculous, filthy muggle game in the first place,” he burst out, his tone becoming manic. “You people are disgusting, walking around pretending to be happy and la di da. But you’re _not_ , are you? You’re liars, all of you!” Everyone stopped to stare.  
  
“Now, Malcolm,” warned Arthur.  
  
“I’ve watched you all...what you’re _doing_. Your souls are black and broken!” he cried hysterically. “I can see them!”  
  
Narcissa rushed onto the field and walked Baddock away towards the house, with a promise to Arthur that she’d get him a calming potion. Harry stared after them, his thoughts tripping over themselves. Pretending. Pretending to be happy. Pretending not to want.  
  
Ron walked up behind Harry and clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“That fellow’s a few slices short of a birthday cake, eh? What was all that about, do you reckon?” Harry looked at him for a moment and then it hit him. It became gloriously clear what he wanted to say.  
  
“I think...I want you.”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Ron stared, slack jawed as Harry turned and walked calmly back to the house.  
  
He remained motionless for precisely three minutes and twenty-eight seconds before the words finally sank in, and when they did he began a reckless sprint to catch up with him.  
  
He opened the door to their room, huffing, and stepped inside, slamming and locking it behind him.  
  
Harry was at the door to their bath, shoeless and surprised. Ron locked eyes with him, strode purposefully across the room, pushed him up against the wall and began to snog him rotten. A startled gasp never had the chance to escape Harry’s lips because Ron’s tongue was very much in the way. He let his hands wander down and creep back up beneath Harry’s shirt, his fingers teasing through the line of coarse hair on his stomach. Harry’s hands, meanwhile, had found their way behind him and grabbed his bum, pulling them flush against one another.  
  
It was Ron’s turn to gasp, pulling away momentarily to look at him. “Your glasses.” He removed them and set them on the bedside table, then pulled Harry back into his arms and attacked his neck with lips and tongue. He tasted salty and musky and exactly the way his shirts always smelled.  
  
“You have mud in your hair,” Harry gasped out. Ron slipped his hands inside Harry’s shorts and massaged his cool buttocks with his hands, grinding their erections together through the layers of clothing.  
  
He steered Harry toward the edge of the bed and pushed his pants and shorts forcefully down to the knees. He grasped him in his own callused hand, pulling with firm strokes.  
  
“Oh fuck, Ron,” he breathed. Ron shivered as hot breath caressed his neck, and on impulse he fell to his knees. “Oh god, oh god you’re gonna– _ahhh_!” Ron licked a trail upwards, letting his tongue circle and slide until Harry was muttering please over and over again between gasps. He took him into his mouth as deeply as he could manage, which wasn’t terribly far, so he continued to use his hand alongside. Harry was a mess, leaning against the side of the bed, trying not to fall backwards lest he lose his view. “Oh fuck _more_ ,” he begged.  
  
Ron shifted him sideways in his mouth, letting the head slip and slide between his teeth with each bob of the head. Harry tangled his fingers in Ron’s hair and was clearly trying not to get carried away with the thrusting. Ron pulled back for a moment.  
  
“Go ahead and do it,” he insisted, breathlessly. “Fuck my mouth.”  
  
Harry snapped and grabbed Ron’s hair more forcefully, thrusting in hard and deep and fast. Ron did his best to relax into it, tears pricking at the backs of his eyes..  
  
“Oh god, I’m gonna...” Harry tried to pull out, but Ron grabbed his hands and kept him in place. When the first pulse hit the back of his throat, he thought he was going to gag, but somehow he managed to relax enough to swallow most of it. When it was over, he pulled off and kissed Harry’s softening length, resting his cheek against his hip, and breathed in the musky, boyish scent.  
  
“Good?” Ron hazarded, smiling up at Harry as he pressed small kisses into his hip.  
  
“Stellar,” he panted. “Moreish. I can’t believe you swallowed it.” He rubbed the sweat from his face as he fell back onto the bed.  
  
“I quite like the first bit, actually. There’s just so _much_ of the second.”  
  
“But it was good? Fun?” he pressed.  
  
“Yeah, very much!” Ron laughed. “You’ll see for yourself!”  
  
“Oh good.” Harry sounded rather relieved. “Because I know what that letter said, but I’m really not interested in taking it up the arse at the moment.”  
  
“Ah well,” Ron replied. “While there’s life, there’s hope, eh?”  
  


~~~~~

  
  
Pansy should have insisted that they not purchase lamb. She knew instinctively that Sunny Jim would home in on it. She sighed in resignation. Another night of wine for dinner. After all, there were only so many haricots vert one could eat before chucking them all back up again.  
  
Seamus grinned at her from down the table and she gave him a small wink. He wasn’t so bad, really. They’d spent quite an enjoyable afternoon lifting a large appliance after casting surreptitious lightening charms. The fellow from the shop seemed to think that Pansy must be some sort of athletics prodigy after seeing her balance her side of the...what was it, oh yes, _Foster_ while unlocking the trunk. It was a small model, but there was no reason the elf needed to be made aware of the engorgement charm she’d placed on its interior.  
  
After they were done with the shopping (not forgetting plenty of the promised ice!) they’d spent a pleasant hour sipping pints of beer at the local pub and watching the local wildlife play darts.  
  
“However do they manage to play while inebriated?”  
  
“Ah, sometimes I think it actually improves their aim,” he revealed. “So... you keep your cars at Malfoy Manor?” Pansy had been expecting that question.  
  
“Only since the war ended. They were housed at a car museum until then. Narcissa offered, and I accepted. This way I actually get to drive them. Of course, she also probably thought that I’d be family.” She studied the bar as Seamus looked at her thoughtfully.  
  
“Can I ask a personal question?” he said, finally.  
  
“I suppose so,” she consented. “Though I may not answer it. And no questions about my knickers, so you can get that right out of your head.”  
  
“No, not like that. I just don’t understand something. Why do you want to marry Malfoy so badly?”  
  
Pansy gave several false starts at an answer, but failed to come up with one.  
  
Now here she sat at the dining table, still thinking about what she had been asked several hours previously. She was snapped out of her reverie by Blaise tapping her on the arm.  
  
“Pansy, darling, I meant to tell you, I brought some very fine whisky with me and want to have you taste it. A positively gorgeous single malt that I picked up in Glen Lachart over Christmas."  
  
“Ooh, that would be lovely! They’ve run out of Old Ogden’s here already and all that’s left is Irish muggle whisky and bourbon,” she said, scrunching up her nose.  
  
“Irish _and_ Muggle? How horrible!” Blaise exclaimed. “Muggle whisky is bad enough, but good lord.”  
  
“Yes, I know what you mean,” agreed Pansy absently.  
  
She turned once again to the table and her eyes fell on Seamus. He was looking at her with such a look of sadness and disgust that her breath caught painfully in her throat.  
  
Pansy knew without a doubt that she had fucked up terribly. She’d felt shame before. God knew she’d had enough reasons to be ashamed in her lifetime. But the feeling coursing through her at that moment was something more. Her eyes fell back down to her plate.  
  
She felt something of a whore.  
  


~~~~~

  
  
“I don’t much care for lamb, really,” commented Harry as they stood together on the terrace.  
  
“You should have said! I’d’ve eaten yours.”  
  
“And what would you have offered in return, eh?”  
  
“I can think of a few things,” Ron said, running a finger under Harry’s collar. Harry felt the delicious throb of arousal uncurl deep in his belly.  
  
“I’ll brave the elves and get you a lamb sandwich later tonight if you let me rub off against your arse.”  
  
“There's no _let _about it,” Ron replied huskily.  
  
“What about you–” Harry was interrupted by a sudden thumping from overhead. They both looked up. “Is that...is that Pig trying to get into that window?”  
  
“Oh no. Not this again,” Ron groaned.  
  
“He could really hurt himself! Call him down, he’ll listen to you,” Harry insisted. Ron nodded, frowning.  
  
“Pig!” The tiny owl flew down to his waiting hand. He untied the letter and looked at whom it was addressed to. “Harry, there’s something wrong with this.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“This is addressed to Narcissa, but it’s in Percy’s handwriting. Why would he be writing to her?”  
  
Harry felt a twist of apprehension. Then it occurred to him that it must be much worse for Ron.  
  
“Give it here. I’ll read it, and if there’s nothing wrong...”  
  
“Go ahead,” he sighed, handing it over nervously.  
  
  
_My flower,  
  
I do understand what you’re feeling. I miss you, too, but we simply cannot take the risk until everything has settled. At the very least, not until we’ve convinced everyone that you had nothing to do with this. As to your concern...of course, my darling! How could you think that I wouldn’t want to marry you after all? Your new status has not escaped my attention. If your worry has something to do with your son’s errant taste in women, I can only say that I, my dearest, prefer that my mine be able to spell.  
  
Always,  
  
Your knight_  
  
  
It could be taken as incriminating. In point of fact, it _was_. Yet for some reason he didn’t quite understand, Harry decided not to say. Not simply for the sake of not incriminating Ron’s brother (and oh dear, he would make a terrible Auror in light of this decision!), but for some deep tickle in the back of his consciousness that told him to let it go.  
  
“There’s nothing here,” he said, pocketing the letter. “It’s just to do with Kingsley business. I’ll give it to her.”  
  
“Oh, good. That’s good,” Ron sighed, relieved.  
  
“Hey, Andromeda dusted off the Victrola this afternoon. Want to go have a drink and see what’s there?”  
  
“A drink?” Ron perked up a bit. “I like the sound of that proposition.”  
  
“Just so long as you don’t forget mine about the sandwich,” Harry said.  
  
“Are you mad? Of course not!”  
  
They entered the French doors to the drawing room to find most of the house already there. Harry motioned to the corner where Seamus and Goldstein were sitting on a low slung sofa poring over a stack of 78s.  
  
“I’ll get our drinks and meet you over there,” Ron suggested. Harry nodded and walked over.  
  
“I notice how chummy you’ve been, and I don’t blame you a bit. She’s a real corker. But you know what I think– out of your league, my friend.” Harry overheard Goldstein remark.  
  
“Fuck off,” Seamus murmured, appearing absorbed in the records in front of him. “This one,” he said, handing a 78 to Goldstein.  
  
“Found the records, have you?” Harry asked as Goldstein stood up and put on the record.  
  
“Mmhm. It’s all good old-fashioned stuff here. Got some Bowlly, Dorseys, Fitzgerald, Vera Lynn, Boswell Sisters, Ruth Etting, even some Noël Coward,” Seamus replied. Harry blinked owlishly.  
  
“I’m sorry, I have no idea who any of those people are.”  
  
“Me neither, but we're about to find out,” he replied, lighting his fag. “Once our Anthony here can get the thing to play. I sincerely doubt they were Lucius Malfoy’s, though.”  
  
“My bet’s on the father or grandfather,” Goldstein posited. “After all, he’d never have bought a Muggle-built house in the first place.” Ron arrived with the drinks and handed one to Harry, who took it gratefully.  
  
“I heard that his grandfather bought it in the 30s,” Ron added. “Extremely unusual move.”  
  
“I was going to fix this house,” Baddock said from behind Harry. “He promised me.” Everyone was startled at his entrance to the conversation. The 17-year-old boy hardly ever spoke, and after his outburst earlier everyone was wary. And rightly so, thought Harry. He was an awfully strange little blighter.  
  
“Is that so?” asked Ron, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean by fix?”  
  
“Remodel it and give it magic. Lucius liked my sketches. He saw my gift.”  
  
“That’s very interesting,” said Harry lightly, raising his eyebrows to the others.  
  
“Why in sodding hell won’t this play?” Goldstein cried in frustration.  
  
“You need to wind it up,” Goyle explained, joining them. “See that crank?”  
  
“Goyle, how do you know so much about Muggle things?” asked Ron.  
  
“Muggle Studies. Didn’t you take it? All we Slytherins did. Know the enemy and all that rot,” he replied cheerfully.  
  
“The crank,” Goldstein said, knocking his fist against his forehead. Goyle looked on with pity.  
  
“Poor Ravenclaws,” Goyle smiled. Neville walked over and sat down.  
  
“Music, eh? Splendid.”  
  
“Did you ever find that gardener, Nev?” asked Harry.  
  
“Buck Buck? Oh yes. Had lots to say about my plant, but a bit gaga. Kept going on about seeing something objectionable in his potting shed.”  
  
“Another Michael Collins, Blaise!” Pansy called from the opposite side of the room. She appeared to be getting spectacularly drunk on Irish whisky tonight. Harry couldn’t help but notice Seamus frowning at her. The poor chap didn’t look to be having a very good evening. _He_ , on the other hand...  
  
“Care for a stroll?” Harry murmured to Ron.  
  
“Brilliant idea.” They finished their drinks and walked back out into the night.  
  
“This air is fantastic,” Ron remarked. “Have you been in the rose garden yet?”  
  
“No, let’s go. I can suck you off between the rows.” Ron’s eyes lit up and he took off at a jog.  
  
“Wait!” Harry called after him, loosening his tie as he ran after him.  
  
Suddenly, Ron took an impossible dive and disappeared between the hedges.  
  
“Harry?” he shouted.  
  
“Are you alright?” he huffed, reaching the spot where Ron fell.  
  
The body of Daphne Greengrass was face up in the grass-covered path. Her painted lips were starkly visible in the moonlight against her pale face and blonde hair. There was an enormous gash in her forehead. She was still as death. Her eyes were open.  
  
“No pulse,” Ron said, crouching. He stood back up and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“She’s dead.”  
  
“For a while, too, by the looks of it,” Harry murmured. Ron sighed heavily.  
  
“This is getting serious.”  
  
__

____

__

____

~~~~~

____

__  
_  
_

  
  
_If it ain't love,  
Why am I here,  
Longing for you?  
If it ain't love,  
Why am I here,  
Yearning for you?_  
  
Pansy was on her fifth. She’d tried the Erin Go Bragh. And the Collins. And the Tullamore. Hell, she’d even tried the Jamesons.  
  
There were some feelings a person simply cannot drink away. But she was damn well going to give it her best shot.  
  
_What can it be  
That's making me  
Dream of you night and day?_  
  
“Wouldn’t you rather try my scotch?” asked Blaise, handing her a Redbreast. She took a hearty swig.  
  
“Oh, now this is _good_!” she slurred. “I’m only drinking the Irish tonight, Blaise. Final.”  
  
_If it ain't love,  
Then it must be  
Some magic art_  
  
“Ooh,” she moaned, curling over onto the arm of her chair. “I’m so bloody stupid.”  
  
“Well, if you want to be so crude about it, then yes,” Blaise agreed.  
  
“I think I’m going to be sick.”  
  
“I’ll handle this,” Seamus said, walking up. “Come on, Parkinson, let’s get you cleaned up.” He put an arm under her shoulder and lifted her to stand. She put both arms around his neck and clung for dear life. The floor was moving, after all.  
  
“Why am I such an awful person, Seamus?” she moaned as he steered her into the hall.  
  
“Your friend Blaise is a useless prick. Can you manage the steps?”  
  
“Oh God, there are _stairs_?” Pansy was horrified.  
  
“Alrighty then,” he said, lifting her up. “Merlin, Parkinson,” he groaned. “Are your knickers made out of lead?”  
  
“I hate you so much right now, Finnigan.”  
  
“Well if it’s any comfort, I don’t hate you,” he grunted, climbing.  
  
“You should. I’m a terrible human being and a useless coward.” They reached their floor, but he continued to carry her down the hall.  
  
“Push the latch, would you?” Pansy somehow managed it, and he unceremoniously plopped her onto her bed. “I’d hardly call you useless. As for being a coward, you won’t find me throwing any stones,” he said, pulling off her shoes.  
  
“How can a Gryffindor war hero be a coward?” she asked sleepily, curling onto her side.  
  
“I betrayed Harry Potter once, too,” he replied softly, pulling a blanket out of the chest at the foot of the bed. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”  
  
“I’m drunk, not helpless, Finnigan.” She stared up at him blearily. “ _Seamus_. I’m sorry for before.”  
  
“I know. You can make it up to me by letting me drive your girl, yeah?” he smiled. “And I’m not gonna leave you to choke on your own sick,” he said, tucking her in. She felt him run his thumb down her cheek and place a soft kiss to her forehead. “You rest now.”  
  
So comfortable. But there was something...  
  
“Tomorrow,” she mumbled against the pillow, sleep finally beginning to overtake her. “You talk to Queenie. She opened the door next to her own by mistake last night, but she said sir. No sirs on our floor. Someone...out...of place.”  
  


____

__

____

~~~~~

____

__  
_  
_

  
  
Seamus was awakened by Pansy throwing a pillow at him.  
  
“Get out of here, Finnigan, no man should have to see this,” she groaned.  
  
“Back to Finnigan now, are we?” he chuckled.  
  
“Seamus. I look like a dead raccoon. You must leave now.”  
  
Seamus rose and headed for the door. He paused as he took hold of the knob.  
  
“Last night Harry and Ron found Queenie dead in the rose garden.”  
  
“How trying. Tell me another,” she grumbled, rubbing her temples.  
  
“They raised the alarm right after you passed out. I thought you should know.”  
  
“Oh _fuck_.”  
  
He left her to digest the news and put herself back together. After getting himself cleaned up, he met her again in the hallway on her way to breakfast.  
  
“I suppose it’s safe to say that both murders were committed by the same person?” she wondered aloud.  
  
“I hope so, or this house party is even more fucked than I thought.”  
  
They were intercepted by Kingsley at the bottom of the staircase.  
  
“I need to see the two of you in the study after breakfast,” he said, his face grim.  
  
“Of course,” nodded Pansy.  
  
After some fortifying eggs and coffee, he found himself once again seated across from Harry and Ron in the study.  
  
“I’ve found the murder weapon. The blow was struck with one of the granite spheres that rest on the garden wall to either side of the gates. They’re detachable, and one of them was put back with a blood stain.” Seamus shook his head.  
  
“There’s something I don’t understand here, sir. Why is the killer not ak-ing them? Why the gruesome Muggle tactics?”  
  
“They’re avoiding _priori incantatem_ ,” explained Harry.  
  
“I have something to tell you, sir, that may be important.”  
  
“Yes, Miss Parkinson?”  
  
“The night of the first murder, as I was walking back to my room, I saw Miss Greengrass enter the wrong room by mistake. The one next to her own, furthest from mine. She said ‘sorry, sir’ or something like that.” Kingsley closed his eyes for a moment in thought. He opened them suddenly.  
  
“That’s Malcolm Baddock’s room!” he mused. “Who would have been in there that was old enough to warrant a sir?”  
  
“I don’t know. I frankly wasn’t paying much attention to anyone at that point in the evening.”  
  
“Well this is still something worth knowing. Something to follow up on. I’ll question Baddock about it,” he nodded with a gleam in his eye. “Thank you, Miss Parkinson.”  
  
“Tommy and Tuppence score a hit,” remarked Ron. Seamus snorted.  
  
“I won’t ask how the Hardy Boys are faring,” Pansy shot back. Seamus stared.  
  
“Bleedin’ thorough, that Muggle Studies course!”  
  


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Harry and Ron lingered on the sturdy leather sofa after the others left the study.  
  
“I wonder how this leather would feel on my bottom,” Ron said, attacking Harry’s neck. “May as well make use of this privacy, eh?” Harry thought that this was a pretty fantastic idea, and flipped Ron over onto his back and began undoing both of their flies.  
  
“I want to rub off against you,” he insisted, conjuring a dollop of lube to assist the proceeding.  
  
“Bloody hell, yes!” Ron moaned. Harry took them both in his hand, and Ron added his, too. That was _so much better_ , Harry thought happily. He loved the feel of Ron’s callused palm rubbing against his cock. The very best kind of friction there was.  
  
“Fuck yeah, just like that,” he panted, rocking against him, the heads slipping and sliding against each other, hardness against brilliant hardness. There was nothing else like this, in his opinion.  
  
He leaned down to kiss Ron, leaning one hand against the mahogany panelling of the wall for stability.  
  
He vaguely registered a click just before he came, collapsing onto his friend and nuzzling into his neck.  
  
“You smell so fucking good when you sweat,” he said, licking the perspiration from below Ron’s ear.”  
  
“Mmm, so do you. I used to sniff your shirts. And by ‘used to’ I mean just the other day,” Ron chuckled. “Between your legs smells pretty good, too.”  
  
“Anytime you want to put your face down there I’m fine with it.” He stared for a moment, puzzled. “The wall moved.” Ron sat up and looked at the wall behind the sofa where Harry indicated.  
  
“It’s a hidden door!” he said, excitedly. He began to charm them clean and zip up.  
  
They moved the furniture back and walked inside. It was small, and contained very little. There was a rack to the left that contained very wide scrolls, and a tiny desk on the right hand wall with nothing but an ink blotter and writing implements on top. In the center of the wall they faced was a large table set at a slant with a little stool in front of it. A hooded torch was on the wall above it to direct the light down, as were several tools.  
  
“This is a drafting table!” exclaimed Harry. “Lucius Malfoy had a drafting table?”  
  
“What’s that for?” asked Ron.  
  
“For drawing up blueprints. Plans for buildings. That’s what those tools are for. A t-square and a compass,” he explained. “And that thing is for drawing curves but I can’t remember what it’s called.”  
  
“I bet Goyle knows,” said Ron, nodding. He walked over to the little desk and opened the top drawer. “There are letters in here. Do you think it’s alright to read?”  
  
“I think so,” replied Harry. “They say that you should know the victim if you want to know why he was killed. What’s that one about?”  
  
Ron opened one up and scanned it.  
  
“Oh my _God_!” he said, excitedly. “This is unbelievable!” He handed the letter to Harry.  
  
  
_My only true friend,  
  
I miss you already. Only a day has gone by and I wish I had never left. Perhaps it was my fancy, but I thought I saw you motion me to get off the train.  
  
Why didn’t I?  
  
Your wife doesn’t know you. I don’t understand what drives you to stay. Is it because you care so much what other people think? You know, just as I do, that they would never approve of us. However, they can all go to hell.  
  
You must live! I would come to you, my dear little one. I am strongly considering muggle transport, I am so desperate to see you! When I am no longer bound by the restrictions of my age, you can be sure that nothing will keep me from you. I will come to you at night, when you do not expect me. I will come to you as God made me. I will sink down onto you while you still dream, yet you will know me.  
  
I will come to you.  
  
  
Your helpless,  
  
Malcolm_  
  


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Narcissa was having a very bad day, and she’d barely made it past breakfast.  
  
To start, her son’s unexpected new fiancee was found with her head bashed in. She still had not heard back from Percy, and Harry Potter was trying to corner her at breakfast, which was very suspicious and made her extremely paranoid.  
  
As much as she wanted to find Percy and talk to him, her first priority was helping her son. He must be completely broken up. She’d looked practically everywhere, and finally tried the conservatory. She walked in on a scene that she was surprised hadn’t already happened, though under slightly different circumstances.  
  
“I’m terribly sorry about Daphne, you know,” Pansy said graciously. Draco flinched.  
“I don’t need your sympathy, Pansy,” he said testily. “Just leave me be, would you?” Pansy bristled.  
  
“I thought we were friends,” she said, hurt in her voice.  
  
“We’re not at school anymore, Pansy. Things change.”  
  
“You are an ungrateful bastard,” she fumed. “You fucked me for years, leading me on, making me a part of your family, make me _care_ for your mother. Then you just tossed me aside like so much garbage and I still don’t know why you did it! I’m trying to do the right thing here, because as much as I detested Queenie I’m sorry that she’s dead and I wanted you to know that. But instead you treat me like something you found under your shoe.”  
  
“You’re out of line, Pansy,” Draco warned. Narcissa saw Seamus walk in the opposite door.  
  
“No, you’re out of line! How do you dare treat me this way after all this!” she cried, the tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. “I was ready to spend my _life_ with you!”  
  
“Did you honestly think that I would marry someone who wasn’t from the proper background?” Draco asked, apparently scandalised.  
  
“What’s wrong with my family?” she sobbed.  
  
“You may have had money, Pansy, but your family was not of the appropriate class to marry a Malfoy.”  
  
“Draco!” Narcissa exclaimed involuntarily. Had she done this? Was this her fault? She felt so very responsible.  
  
“See here, you take that back!” Seamus interrupted in a deadly serious voice.  
  
“Why should I?” spat Draco. “I could never marry a squirrelly little bitch like her.”  
  
Narcissa stared, frozen, as Seamus’s fist connected with Draco’s jaw. He got in several more punches, including a particularly bad one to his nose, until Pansy and Narcissa both stepped in to pull him back.  
  
“You get him out of here, Pansy dear.”  
  
“Yes, Narcissa. I’m so sorry!” she replied, still crying profusely.  
  
“Nonsense, dear. He shouldn’t have said those things. They’re not at all true to me. You know that.”  
  
Pansy nodded, and dragged Seamus from the room. The poor boy seemed to be in shock and followed her easily. Narcissa looked down at her moaning, bloodied son and shook her head at him sadly.  
  
“Oh Draco, dear. You really must stop being such an ass.”  
  


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“What’s all this about?” asked Rita, taking out her Quick Quotes Quill and parchment. Baddock sat staring at the elves with a look of distaste.  
  
Everyone was assembled in the drawing room once again, this time at the command of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Ron insisted that they not tell him why. He was very much looking forward to beating Seamus and Pugface to the punch. Ha.  
  
“You may be wondering why I have brought you all here today,” he began affectedly.  
  
“We,” corrected Harry.  
  
“Sorry,” whispered Ron. “Why _we_ have brought you all here today. You may not be aware that we were called to assist in the investigation being conducted by Minister Shacklebolt.”  
  
“So were we, you ninny,” Parkinson cut in. Ron ignored her.  
  
“How could you not tell me?” asked Hermione, hurt. Ron gave her a sheepish and apologetic look as he continued.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, this case has been a vexing one. The murder of Lucius Malfoy with his own muggle pistol, followed by Daphne Greengrass from a blow to the head. Let’s start with Lucius. Who would benefit most from his death? There were two immediate candidates. His son, Draco Malfoy, and his widow. Narcissa Malfoy. I quickly discounted Draco for reasons that I won’t bore you with here. Narcissa, on the other hand... Mrs Malfoy, do you deny that you are glad your husband is dead?” he asked bluntly.  
  
Narcissa lifted her chin and said cooly, “Well, it’s a question of life after death. Now that he’s dead, I have a life.”  
  
“So you won’t deny having an affair with my own brother, Percy Weasley?” he demanded.  
  
“This is highly inappropriate, Ronald,” said Percy stiffly.  
  
“I’m afraid I agree, dear,” Molly added.  
  
“How did you know that?” asked Harry, confused.  
  
“I read the letter last night while you were in the shower,” Ron confessed.  
  
“Oh.” He frowned. “That was very naughty.”  
  
Ron would revisit the promise laced in those words later. He was not to be sidetracked.  
  
“However,” he continued, “I discounted her in light of new information of a highly objectionable nature that was discovered by Harry and myself less than an hour ago.”  
  
“Which was?” asked Seamus.  
  
“Does this have anything to do with the potting shed, by chance?” asked Neville.  
  
“I saw something nasty. In the potting shed,” squeaked the gardener, Buck Buck.  
  
“Me too,” shuddered Goyle.  
  
“Attention, please! The secret drafting room of Lucius Malfoy in which he kept his most intimate correspondence,” Ron revealed. Several gasps were to be heard around the room.  
  
“A drafting room?” Arthur exclaimed excitedly. “What’s a drafting room?”  
  
“It’s a place where you draw up plans for buildings,” explained Goyle.  
  
“You know such a lot, Greg!” cooed Hannah. Ludo’s face fell from across the room.  
  
“Oh yes!” said Neville. “I have an architect drawing up my greenhouses. I’m going to have six of them built in keeping with my business plan.”  
  
“Business plan?” asked Bully, perking up.  
  
“Yes, I have a five year plan for a–”  
  
“Please, everyone! Don’t you want to know who did it?” Ron said over them.  
  
“The ability to think ahead is a very admirable quality,” Bully said with feeling.  
  
The room quickly descended into chaos.  
  
“BADDOCK KILLED THEM!” Harry shouted at the top of his lungs over the din. Everyone froze.  
  
“Harry!” scolded Ron. “You weren’t supposed to tell already!” He saw Parkinson and Seamus stifling their laughter, the bastards.  
  
“I didn’t mean to do it!” cried Baddock hysterically. “I loved him!”  
  
“You’ll have to come with me, Baddock.” Kingsley conjured ropes around the boy’s wrists and began to lead him to the door.  
  
“I never should have invited you to stay for Christmas,” Draco said with venom.  
  
“At least I loved!” he cried as he was dragged from the room. “Can _you_ say the same?”  
  
“A crime of passion, then,” sighed Andromeda. “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”  
  
“Queenie must have seen _Malfoy_ in Baddock’s room,” nodded Seamus.  
  
“So that’s why he killed her,” said Pansy.  
  
“He’s underage. Of course!” Hermione murmured to herself.  
  
“Something _nasty_ ,” repeated Buck Buck. “I never spoke of it.”  
  
“Yes, it was,” agreed Goyle.  
  
“Sorry,” interrupted Ron, “but what are you two talking about?”  
  
“Lucius Malfoy buggering Baddock in the potting shed,” Goyle replied with a shrug.  
  
“An unpardonable liberty,” tutted Bagman.  
  
“But why didn’t you say anything?” asked Harry asked Goyle, exasperated.  
  
“No one asked me.”  
  
“How frightfully fascinating all of this is!” twittered Doge, watching the aftermath erupt all around him.  
  
“Fancy a game of sardines?” Harry murmured to Ron. Ron stared.  
  
“No one is going to want to play hide and seek right now, Harry.”  
  
“No, no. I meant just us.”  
  


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“Remember our deal, Pansy. I get to drive the Lotus!” Seamus reminded her for the fourth time. He was clearly excited, practically bouncing as they walked out to the carriage house.  
  
"Yes, yes,” she affirmed. She opened the door and placed the key into his outstretched hand. He sat down, touching the steering wheel nervously before starting the ignition.  
  
“Be gentle with her,” she teased.  
  
“Course, yes. Here goes.”  
  
He handled her perfectly, she couldn’t help but notice. Yet for some reason, only a few miles down the road, he pulled off the side and shut off the engine.  
  
“What’s wrong?” she asked, confused. “She’s running beautifully, isn’t she?”  
  
“Car’s fine, it’s something else,” he said, looking straight ahead with a serious expression.  
  
“Well...what then?” Not the Irish thing again, she thought nervously.  
  
“Pansy,” he began slowly. “I think you’re simply it. I’m completely–”  
  
Her heart landed in her throat in record time.  
  
“No!” she interrupted.  
  
“No?” echoed Seamus, dejectedly.  
  
“Don’t say it like that,” she said, tears pricking her eyes. “Tell me the way _you’d say it_!”  
  
An enormous grin broke out across Seamus’s face.  
  
“I’ll be honest with you, woman. I’m much better at showing.”  
  
“Go on then, Seamus Finnigan,” she laughed, straddling him. “Show me!”  
  


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“What does this make us, do you think?” asked Harry as they walked along the garden wall after tea. Ron thought hard for a moment.  
  
“Well,” he replied finally. “We’re... What I mean..." he broke off. "What I mean is, we’re just like we were before, aren’t we? We already loved each other, right?”  
  
“The same as before, just with the extra bits?” Harry elaborated.  
  
“Exactly. I mean, it’s not like I have any great plan to run off and get married or anything. I don't really see myself wanting to. I’m not so sure about the fairer sex. By which I mean women, of course. But I’ll include you, because I do think your awfully attractive,” Ron concluded, blushing.  
  
“Well, that works for me. I like it like this. And, er...I’m willing to reconsider the arse thing,” Harry offered generously. “But you first!” he clarified.  
  
“I knew you’d come around,” Ron replied, smiling. He stopped suddenly and put a finger to his lips.  
  
The sounds of two people in the throes of passion could be plainly heard from the other side of the garden wall.  
  
“Who are they?” Harry mouthed.  
  
“Who cares?” Ron mouthed back.  
  
They listened together, Ron watching the evidence of Harry’s arousal grow behind his trousers.  
  
“Oh, Mollywobbles,” moaned Arthur as he came.  
  
“Oh, oh, _Popsy_!”  
  
  
  
**APPENDIX:**  
  
  
Miss Bassington,  
  
As you are aware, I have been tasked by the University with cataloguing what little there is of the estate of Alasdair Head and determining what may be of interest to future Head scholars. My work is almost completed, but I must confess that there are a number of unusual items that have brought me to a stand-still. It is my hope that you may have some personal knowledge of these items and could perhaps assist me in identifying them and understanding their presence among the late Mr. Head's belongings. I am particularly interested in your opinion of item No. 84, as I am at a total loss to identify it.  
  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Franklin O. Pringle  
Head Archivist  
  
  
  
**PLATES:**  
  
Item no. 3  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=pagangod.jpg)  
  
Souvenir of time with voodoo fertility cult? Confined spirit of Rev. White?  
  
Item no. 22  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=glycerine.jpg)  
  
Why never opened?  
  
  
Item no. 39  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=bones.jpg)  
  
Chimaera?  
  
  
Item no. 14  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=xmas1894.jpg)  
  
Gift of Richard Harding Davis.  
  
  
Item no. 84  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=unidentified2.jpg)  
  
Heavily perfumed.  
  
  
Item no. 29  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=unidentified.jpg)  
  
Uncorroborated at wake.  
  
  
Item no. 6  
  
[](http://s383.photobucket.com/albums/oo276/alasdair_head/?action=view&current=ladybugs.jpg)  
  
Removed from a very dusty, and hitherto unwrapped present from Federico Garcia Lorca.  
  
  
_fin_

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End file.
